Wéry looked down from the bastion upon chaos. The road into the city was crowded with shapes and shadows. Carts inched forwards, blocked in the crowd. Voices called in the darkness,' Get on! Get on!' Other voices wailed or cried out in pain. In the tiny pools of light by the Saxon Gate he could see that men were cramming themselves forward in an effort to push past a wagon that was at a standstill under the very arch. The wagon was not moving. The press of bodies around it was making it impossible. Voices, hoarse with yelling, bellowed for men to keep still or to move out of the way. No one heeded them.
'Ho there,' called Wéry down into the crowd. 'What unit is that? What unit?' But his voice lost itself in the struggling mass and he heard no answer.
Beside him the bastion commander, a short man in a huge cocked hat, was craning over the parapet.
'There's French among them!' he gasped. 'I'm sure of it!'
Panic was in his voice. It was panic that was breathed out by the crowd below them. Every man down there, at the end of their terrible march from the battlefield, was seized with the fear that in an instant they would be snuffed out. Their comrades around them, wounded, exhausted, were nothing but obstacles. They pressed unthinking for the last yards to the safety of the gate. The gates were jammed back by the crowd. There was no possibility of closing them until the blockage freed. If there were indeed a strong force of French mingled in the mass, the gate might be lost in minutes.
'We must fire, sir. We must disperse them.'
'Don't be a fool,' snapped Wéry. 'Do not fire. Do not fire.' He strode to the top of the inner steps and bellowed down again.
'Ho there! What unit?'
Some hero had got the wagon moving. It sidled forward a few yards into the city: a big rattling shadow among other shadows that eddied forward in a rush as the way was freed.
'What unit is that?'
A voice from the cart, strained and pained, answered, 'Second company, the Fapps.'
The Fapps battalion – or a fragment of it. What of the rest?
What in God's name had happened up there on the banks of the Vater?
'Officer to the bastion to report, please.'
When nothing seemed to respond to his cry, he bellowed again, 'Up and report, damn you!' He could feel his own voice going hoarse with the strain of shouting. But something was happening down there now. They seemed to be lifting something – a man, in the cart. He heard a gasp of pain. Then another voice, faint in the tumult, said, 'No, no. He is wounded. Put him down.'
It was a woman's voice. He thought he knew it.
'You go,' he heard her say. 'Don't be afraid. I will come with you.'
'Commander!' called a voice from across the bastion.
'Wait!' he snapped.
People were climbing the steps to the bastion. Pale uniforms glowed in the lamplight. Bottrop appeared, leading a young, bewildered soldier with his arm in a sling. Behind him, biting her lip as she picked her way up the last few steps, came Maria von Adelsheim. God's teeth, what was she doing here? At this hour?
Here where the enemy might appear without warning, and death might take any of them in a moment?
'Their officer is wounded,' she said. 'This man will tell you what has happened.'
The bastion commander appeared at his side again.
'Report,' he said importantly to the soldier. The man came dazedly to attention.
'Second company, the Fapps?' said Wéry.
'Yes, sir. Wounded detail.'
'What happened up there?'
'Don't know, sir. They caught us up on the march and said the position was overrun, and the enemy cavalry were after us . . .'
'Stop. Who caught you up?'
'The other fellows, sir. The Erzbergers. In a mob they were, no officers . . .'
'Stop again. You were sent back from the lines, as part of a wounded detail?'
'Yes, sir. After the first attack. Captain Herz and the badly wounded in the carts, the rest of us walking. And . . .'
'And then some men from the Erzberg battalion caught you up and told you they had been overrun and the enemy were in pursuit with cavalry?'
'Yes, sir.'
'When was that?'
'Around an hour ago, sir.'
'Did you see the enemy?'
'We heard horses, sir. But it was dark.'
Dark. It had been dark for hours, and these men had been marching, running, riding, dazed and wounded, all the way. What chance of a sensible report from any of them?
'Right. Well done. And you are safe. Now what we need you to do is get yourself to the hospital – what is it? Sabre-cut?'
'Don't know, sir. After we cleared them out of the position I found I couldn't use it. That's all.'
'Get yourself to a hospital. They'll see you right. The nearest one's at the Saint Cyprian church. Know it?'
'No, sir.'
Wéry turned to the bastion commander.
'Spare a man to take him there, would you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And there are men of the Erzberg battalion in the crowd. Bring at least one of them to me.'
'Yes, sir.'
The woman was still standing there, watching them.
'You have blood on your dress,' he said.
'It was his – the officer's. I think his wound broke open as they tried to lift him down.'
'Please – you should not be here.'
It was agonizing to see her standing there, when shots might break out at any moment.
'I know. I have a message for you from the Governor.' She held out a paper. 'He has left the city. You are now to take over his responsibilities.'
He nodded dully. Gianovi was gone. Well, at least that simplified some things.
'What has happened?' she asked.
'I do not really know. The army was attacked in their positions. They must have held against the first assault, if they were able to organize a wagon train for their wounded. But there must have been a second attack, and at least one of the battalions has broken.'
At least one. And if the Erzberg battalion had gone, that would be a third of the position. What chance for the rest of them, after that had happened?
'We heard cannon fire in the citadel.'
'That was the Bamberg gate. They saw – or heard, rather – cavalry somewhere out in the fields. The cavalry rode off. We do not know where they have gone . . .'
'Commander!' said a voice behind him urgently.
'Yes, what is it?' he snarled.
It was another militia officer. One of the guildsmen, he thought.
'We think we have finished the barricades, Commander. What are your orders?'
Mercy of saints! We think we have finished the barricades . . . 'I will come and inspect. If they are satisfactory, the next thing . . . Have you prepared fire-buckets in your quarter?'
'Fire-buckets, Commander?'
Damn it – had these people never heard of incendiary shells?
'Earth, sand, water – whatever you can find. And twice as many as you think you will need. And we need earth and dung on the cobbles to damp shot as it falls. I will come . . .' He looked around.
He could not leave the bastion, not yet. The men were leaderless. He had sent their officer to find him someone to interrogate. At any moment they might take it into their heads to shut the gates on the fugitives or start firing at imaginary Frenchmen. And they were all looking at him – the gun crews with their implements in hand, faces blank in the darkness, all turned towards him. Tomorrow, or the day after, iron shot would be hurtling in to smash those men to pieces as they worked here. They were looking at him, waiting for him to speak.
The lamplight was on Maria's face. She was biting her lip, still. He saw her shiver. He saw her breath frosting on the air. She had come without a coat, or even a shawl.
He unbuttoned his own greatcoat and peeled it from his back. He handed it to her.
'You must wear this,' he said. 'If you are staying.'
To the guildsman he said, 'I will come as soon as I can.'
The late February dawn found them both still on the wall. The gates were closed now. Since the arrival of the train of wounded the inflow of fugitives had dropped away to single men or small groups, many arriving on horses that must have been stolen from wagons. There were more of the Fapps battalion, some Erzbergers, and a handful of the dragoons. All those they questioned confessed that their units had been broken. There was no word of the Dürwald battalion, or of the hussars, or any of the artillery. No one knew what had happened to Count Balcke. No officer above the rank of captain reached the city.
But the grey light showed them masses of cavalry, circling the city beyond gunshot of the walls. Wéry counted at least six squadrons of light horse, and three more that might have been dragoons, accompanied by a battery of horse guns. Their presence put all thought of a sortie beyond question. His nervous militias would never stand in square against such a force. Balcke-Horneswerden, and the main body of the retreat (if there was one) would have to fend for themselves.
He found himself looking at Maria in the first light. Her hair was tousled and her eyes marked with lack of sleep. She looked like a walking tent with his greatcoat draped around her. The beauty had fallen from her – gone altogether, except, perhaps, for the line of her jaw as her chin lifted and she listened to what was said.
Hey, Michel – have you ever looked at somebody? Have you tried to see their past, their hopes, their fears, all written on their face?
That was the real person, he said to himself. Take away the grooming and the training, and now you see her as she really is. Her past he knew well, and her hopes for freedom. Her future, he dared not guess.
And supposing he could paint, as Maximilian painted, then this would be the face that would look out from his canvas. How might it change in death?
He could not bear to think of it.
But the idea was infectious. He found himself glancing again and again at her, to reassure himself that she was still alive. He cursed himself for his weakness and looked away. But immediately he had to look back again at her, to be sure that she was there.
He tried to replace her with someone else. He looked at the men around him and let his mind play its death-games with their faces instead. There was a round headed, crimson-cheeked militia officer, with a hairy wart growing by the side of his nose, and another on his chin. So what was his past? What were his hopes and fears? He was a country gentleman from Zerbach. His hopes: probably to go back to being a country gentleman as soon as possible and to have another try at persuading his obstinate peasants to raise that clover crop, which would make so much difference to their lives. His fears: smoke, and a line of charging Frenchmen, and his men melting away around him as he stood there. His future: short.
Or the sombre-looking Master in the Guild of Crossbowmen. Or the thin-faced official from the mayor's chambers, whom Wéry had imagined would desert his post at once, and somehow was still here. Somehow they were all here, every one of them wrenched from their lives into a world that was utterly changed. The same tired expressions were stamped on all of them. They had even begun to defend him, as he had seen Fernhausen and Bergesrode defend the Prince from petitioners.
But still the petitions came. Here before him were two more faces, two nuns from the Convent of Saint Cecilia, whose Mother Superior had sent to know in what way they could assist. (Dear God, what would happen to them when the French broke in?)
'Clear your largest rooms for a hospital,' he said. 'And make as many bandages . . .'
'Oh, but Commander! The Mother Superior says it is impossible to admit men to the convent buildings!'
'They will be wounded, and doctors and orderlies only. I am sure that if she understands the situation . . .'
'She will not agree to this, Commander.'
Dear God! thought Wéry again. He felt very tired.
'Say to her that I most earnestly request it . . .'
'No,' said another voice. 'Do not say that.'
Beyond the two nuns, a figure loomed out of the twilight – a familiar shape, in a black priest's robe. It looked just like Bergesrode. But surely that was a trick of the light. That would be because the thought of Bergesrode had flitted across his mind only a few moments before . . .
It was Bergesrode. It was that face, that unforgettable face, with the dark brows slanting down and the dark patches below his eyes slanting up like the remains of an ashen cross. It was a man who only weeks ago had been one of the most powerful in Erzberg. He looked at the two nuns with eyes of stone.
'Say to the Mother Superior that when men are wounded we are not commanded to pass on the other side of the road. And also say to her that if she is too stupid to understand even that, I shall come and explain it to her myself.'
'Thank you,' sighed Wéry, as the two nuns fled.
'She is a fool, that one,' said Bergesrode.
'What are you doing here?'
'After I left my post, I returned to the cathedral. When the Chapter left the city, I volunteered to remain. So now I have charge of the cathedral, and of the cathedral troops. I came to tell you that we are at your disposal.'
'Thank you,' said Wéry again.
The 'cathedral troops' he supposed, would be the ragged band of beggars and clerks, clanking with pikes and relics, that the priests had been organizing over the last week. Of course they would expect to provide the defence of the cathedral. And he had already assigned it to . . .
He could not remember to whom he had assigned it. Here was one more matter to be resolved, among all the others.
Wéry and his party inspected the barricades inside the breach and ordered that one should be rebuilt a few yards back down the street so that the buildings on either side could enfilade it. They went to the cathedral and climbed the west tower to gain a view of the Kummelberg, where an enemy battalion had appeared and was beginning to dig trenches opposite the citadel. Then they returned to the east wall in time to see a column of infantry emerging from the woods to the north of the city.
'There, sir. They are ours!'
'So they are, by God!' said an aide. 'Hurrah!'
'Wait,' said Wéry.
He trained his field-glass on them. Distant figures danced in the circle of his vision. The uniforms were white, yes. But that meant nothing. Much of the French infantry still wore its old royalist whites because the Republic had had neither the time nor the money to replace them with the new patterns. And after the fugitives of the night and the arrival of enemy cavalry in the morning, it would be extraordinary for a formed body of Erzberg infantry to appear now.
Of course, extraordinary things did happen in war. But if these were Erzbergers, surely they should be making for the Saxon Gate, rather than circling the city?
'Should we not sortie, Commander?'
'No.'
He swung his glass a little to his right. A squadron of French cavalry had halted on the eaves of a wood, not far from the head of the advancing column. The men were dismounted. The horses were picketed. Soldiers did not do that in the presence of an advancing enemy.
'No,' he said again. 'Those men are French.'
He felt the mood of the group around him sink as understanding set in.
'So,' he said, closing his field-glass. 'We must assume that Balcke-Horneswerden has had to retreat in another direction. There is nothing we can do now but wait.'
'How long?' said Bergesrode.
'At least as long as it takes that column to march all the way round to opposite the Ansbach Gate and for their fellows to come up and circle the city. After that, it depends where their guns are. They will be slow to arrive because they are big beasts . . .'
'Commander!'
Again that urgent cry from beyond the ring of faces.
'What is it?' said one of the militia officers gruffly.
'A flag of truce, sir, at the Saxon gate. There is an officer of the enemy who wants to parley.'
'Truce, eh?' said someone.
'Do not put your hopes up,' said Wéry 'They will speak only to scare us. But we will hear what they have to say. Have them blindfolded and brought up to the palace. I will meet them there . . .' He looked around at the faces. '. . . With the quarter commanders. The rest of you should find yourselves breakfast and some rest. You will need it before long.'
'There will be a special mass for our deliverance,' said Bergesrode, as the group broke up. 'Six o'clock, at the cathedral.'
'Very good.'
Maria stood beside him. He looked at her, and all their faces were gathered into one in hers.
She asked, 'What may I do?'
He allowed his eyes to linger on her for a moment, to remind himself that they were both still living – that all of them were, for now.
'Breakfast, and rest,' he repeated. 'It is an order.'
The effect of placing a white hood over a man's head was to make him seem headless, like a blood-drained corpse from the guillotine.
So Wéry, dazed from lack of sleep, mused as he watched the blindfolded French officers led on horseback across the courtyard of the Celesterburg. There were just two of them. Their hands were tied behind their backs to prevent them from removing their hoods without warning. The militiamen guided their horses gently up to the palace steps.
'Very well,' said Wéry. 'Let them see.'
One hood was pulled roughly back, revealing a solemn face with black brows and a grey moustache surrounded by tightly curling grey hair. The Frenchman looked impassively away as the militiamen reached to cut his bonds. Then they lifted the other hood.
It was Lanard.
Colonel Lanard, it seemed, to judge by his insignia. And he was in a foul temper. 'Ah. Good day to you, Wéry,' he said. 'I find the hospitality of Erzberg is not what it was at my last visit. But perhaps that is because the Brabançons are now in charge.'
'Perhaps,' said Wéry. 'Perhaps it is also because at your last visit you were a welcome guest.'
'Not welcome to everyone, even then,' he said. 'But it was my duty, as it is now.'
He climbed stiffly down from the horse.
'My aide, Capitaine Rouche,' he said, indicating the grim faced, grey-haired officer beside him.
'I regret that we have made you uncomfortable,' said Wéry. 'Of course you will appreciate the necessity.'
'Frankly, Commander – and may I congratulate you upon your promotion, albeit disposed at the whim of some aristocrat – I find it hard to appreciate the necessity of any of this most considerable folly. I had thought you a man of better sense. Nevertheless, I have prevailed upon my General to permit me to see if there is any possibility of avoiding a disaster. And therefore I am here.'
'How thoughtful of you,' said Wéry coldly.
'Oh, but I like you, Commander. You remind me of my former General. An angry man, but a good one. So I am going to do my best to save you. Also I understand that at least one person from a household I remember fondly is in your fortress, and I would very much wish that she were not inconvenienced in the coming days.'
He stopped. The amused smile that Wéry remembered played for a moment across his face. Wéry realized that his eyes must have flicked across the courtyard to the windows of the apartments where Maria would be sleeping.
'How did we know?' said Lanard. 'Oh, there are always comings and goings, even in sieges, are there not? You know that even better than I. And we were not so very surprised to hear that Gianovi has slipped away, leaving you to hold the bag. Such a clever man.'
'We will go up to the conference chamber,' said Wéry.
'To the Prince's room, I hope,' said Lanard lightly. 'After all, it seems you have the run of all the palace. Surely there is no better place to find agreement than surrounded by the representation of Heaven.'
'If you wish to see the Prince's chamber, you will have to go back out and force your way in.'
'Ah, but that might damage it!'
'If you value it so much you should leave the city undisturbed.'
'So sad, that to enter paradise one must destroy it.'
In tight-lipped silence they entered the palace. They climbed the marble stairs, their boots and the boots of their aides clattering in a long harsh trail behind them. The paintings and statues seemed to look away as they passed, as if the soldiers were an unwelcome truth that the palace figures still hoped they need not acknowledge. On the carpets of the first-floor corridors the sound of their tread deadened to a low thunder that rolled down the dimly-lit passages and rumoured the end of the Prince's world. The door to the antechamber was open. Inside, the two desks of the secretaries had been pushed to the wall and a long conference table had been set up. More of the officers commanding the defence of the town were gathered there, staring out of the windows or pacing up and down. They came to attention as Wéry entered.
'You may sit,' he said to the Frenchmen, indicating seats in the centre of one side of the table. He himself made his way around to sit opposite them. The other officers arranged themselves on either side of him, a long row of eighteen white uniforms facing the two foreigners.
Capitaine Rouche took some paper, a pen and an ink-bottle from a satchel that he carried, and set them out before him. Lanard leaned forward and looked directly into Wéry's eyes.
'I am authorized by General Augereau of the Army of the French Republic to speak for him to those in command of the defences of this city.'
General Augereau. So it was that man, of all of them, who was to be the opponent in his last fight. He remembered dimly that Lanard had once called Augereau an 'ape'.
'Let us hear what General Augereau has to say.'
'I shall begin by outlining the situation as General Augereau sees it. In brief, the Army of Erzberg has ceased to exist. All three of your field battalions have been broken, and one of them has been completely destroyed. Your Count Balcke is dead. We found his body after the last square of the Dürwald battalion was overrun. We have taken six guns, which we believe to be the sum total of your field artillery. If you will appoint officers for the purpose, they may accompany me back to our lines under flag of truce to interview some captured infantry and artillery officers of yours, who will confirm what I have told you.'
'I see,' said Wéry, conscious of the rustle that was spreading down his side of the table at the Frenchman's words. He fumbled for something to say. 'You have not yet mentioned the hussars.'
Lanard shrugged. 'Hussars will be hussars. They made their ride to glory. I regret to inform you that we have yet to find a single hussar officer among the living.'
'I see.'
'To prevent any further recurrences, General Augereau requires that all remaining forces of the Prince-Bishopric be disarmed and disbanded. All incumbent officers and officials of the Prince-Bishop's administration are required to surrender themselves for parole. In addition, and to provide for the security of the city of Erzberg, my general proposes to leave a garrison of his own troops in the city. I am authorized to discuss with you the terms under which this garrison is to be installed and maintained.'
Wéry knew that he had expected nothing else. He fought to control his anger, and to let his voice roll coolly out to the ears of his subordinates, like an officer rallying a wavering line.
'I see. But I am not authorized to discuss these things. If you wish the town to be surrendered, you must address yourself to His Highness.'
'His Highness, we believe, is as far away as Bamberg, and may very well be farther still – on his way to Bohemia or Bavaria, perhaps. We shall certainly endeavour to discover his whereabouts but we most certainly shall not wait until we have done so before finishing matters here. Therefore we address ourselves to what remains of the armed force of Erzberg, and most specifically to those who have the responsibility of command of that force.'
'Very well. You may tell your general that we will not surrender the town.'
Lanard gave a little gasp of exasperation. 'This answer will achieve nothing but further loss of life, chiefly among the soldiers you are responsible for, and the citizens it is your duty to protect. Erzberg is not a proper fortress. You have no outworks, few trained gunners, and the single ring of your walls is breached. No doubt you have done your best to repair the damage. Even so, your defences are hardly adequate. I should also inform you that we are equipped with heavy guns.'
'We know this.'
Lanard lifted an eyebrow. 'Then I hardly see what you will gain from prolonging the conflict.'
'In the first place, Colonel, I remind you that this city is not yours or your general's, but that of the Prince. Every man of my garrison and every citizen in the town knows that, and will uphold it. In the second, we are subjects not only of the Prince, but of the Emperor, who may yet interest himself in this case. And thirdly, the responsibility for every shot you fire over our wall, every house demolished, every man, woman or child whom you cause to suffer, will be seen by all of Christendom to rest with you.'
Lanard gave an impatient gesture. 'But this is to clothe yourself in chains! The Prince has fled. And will Paris tremble at what the Emperor thinks? Eventually, I suppose, we may hear from the Emperor his thoughts upon the matter – and upon our operations in Switzerland and Rome at the same time, no doubt. It will change nothing. Such . . . obeisance to powers past ill becomes you. You of all people, Commander. This is your choice, and I put it to you again. Either commit your people to suffer and die, or let them be free of the yokes you have named. Which is the choice of the sane man?'
'Free, you say!' cried Wéry. 'Free like Liège, Brussels, Mainz? The only freedom they know is that they are free to weep!'
'Damnation, Wéry!' exclaimed Lanard. 'If I return with these answers to my general, the end is certain! He is not a forgiving man. And our soldiers, when they have climbed your fence – they will not simply be petulant. There will be no stopping once we are in. You know what that will mean.'
'So do you. And may you live long with it.' And he looked at the officer before him, in the uniform of the Republic. And his mind bellowed, It will he your doing! Your doing, not mine!
'So,' said Lanard. 'I had hoped that in this parley at least I might have better luck than in my last. But it seems to be forever my fate to negotiate with bone-headed fanatics.'
'You have taught us to be fanatics, sir. This, too, I lay at your door.'
'Enough. For our part, it remains only to bring up the guns and take position. Until then, you have yet some time to reconsider. I bid you do so – and to consult before you do.'
'But as I have said, Colonel, there is no one with whom we may consult. Therefore you should not look for our answer to change.'
'Bof!' said Lanard wearily. 'Then consult the devil at your elbow, my friend.'
He rose from his place, and the grim-faced Capitaine Rouche rose with him. As the aide stowed his things in his satchel again, Wéry saw that not a mark had been made on the paper in all the conversation. Not one word of his had been recorded for Paris.
The militiamen at the door escorted the Frenchmen out of the room. Their footsteps thudded dully down the corridor and clattered distantly on the gallery steps. The silence after their departure seemed as thick as the air before a storm. The officers were waiting for him.
They were waiting for him, with pale cheeks and shaken eyes. Faces, faces . . . the gentleman from Zerbach; the official from the mayor's chambers. How many of us will live through this? they were thinking. Half? Less than half?
And seated at the very end of the table, the gaunt Knight von Uhnen himself.
Their eyes met. The old aristocrat was as grey as weathered stone. His nose was sharp, and his mouth a little line. His gaze was absent, as if his thoughts were all turned inwards upon some hidden pain.
Hussars will be hussars, Lanard had said. I regret to tell you . . .
Another face to remember: the Knight von Uhnen, who had just learned that his son was dead.
He is dead, your son, thought Wéry. Following a plan that I helped to devise. And if he had not died, then I would have met him with pistols anyway. He would have killed me, or perhaps I him. And why? For a woman. For a crazy notion of honour that should have died long ago.
How can I tell you that I am sorry?
He drew breath, and found that he was trembling.
'I prefer it when they are firing cannon at us,' he said aloud. 'At least we know they mean it, then.'
No one laughed. He must take command again. Now, if never before, he must not fail.
'Knight von Uhnen. I should be grateful if you would follow our French guests and avail yourself of their offer to interview those of our officers they may be holding. The more we can learn about what happened out there, the better.'
The Knight glared at him. He seemed slow to understand what had been said.
'Why should it be me?' he asked, in a voice as hoarse as a crow's.
'Because you will know them, sir,' said Wéry He kept his tone short. This was no time for empty condolences. The Knight would not welcome them either. 'The rest of you gentlemen, please rejoin your units. I will begin an inspection at nine o'clock, beginning with the Mercers' Bastion.'
But of course they did not all leave at once. Many of them had matters for him to resolve – disputes with other units, and excuses for what he would find when he came around. One by one he dealt with them and the group around him diminished. At last there was only one man, standing on the opposite side of the table. It was Bergesrode, frowning at him from under those dark, crossing brows.
Yet one more face. One more past: the man who had held power in this very room, who had fallen and whose seat was now occupied by Wéry himself. His hopes: to be a martyr for his faith. And his future: his wish granted.
'Yes?' said Wéry.
'There is a matter we must discuss.'
'Sit, then.'
Slowly Bergesrode drew up a chair on the opposite side of the table, in the room where he had once had his power. His face showed no emotion. Wéry watched him, and wondered what was coming.
'The Knight von Uhnen,' said Bergesrode. 'He is not to be trusted.'
'Why do you say that?'
'He resents your position. He believes he should command the defence.'
Wéry shrugged. This was hardly a surprise. Von Uhnen was one of the few remaining Imperial Knights in the city. It must have irked to find that his Prince had put him under the command of a foreign-born upstart.
'He plans to arrest you, and take your place,' said Bergesrode.
'What is your evidence for that?'
'I cannot tell you.'
'I have to trust what you say. I have to act on it.'
'I know.' Bergesrode looked down at his hands. 'But . . . It is difficult.'
Wéry raised his eyebrows and waited. (How like Bergesrode he had become!)
'Again, no one has taken the Prince's gold for this,' said Bergesrode grimly.
'Nevertheless.'
'Can you not take my word?'
'In the Terror, a word was enough,' said Wéry dryly. 'But I believe our standards should be a little higher.'
'You are asking me to violate a sacrament.'
'It was a Confession?'
Of course it would be. Half the city would be confessing themselves now.
Bergesrode hesitated for a second more. Then he nodded, abruptly. 'One of Uhnen's men came to the cathedral yesterday evening. We hear many things in the booths. Little shocks us. Even so, the priest who received him was troubled and came to me.'
'And you in turn have come to me.' Wéry thought for a moment. 'Why?'
'I believe it is God's will that the city should be defended. Von Uhnen is not the man to do that. I think you are.'
'I see,' Wéry said, and sighed. 'Thank you.'
There was something awful about Bergesrode's faith in him. Twice, at least, he had betrayed the secretary's confidence – over the Frenchman's passport, and the meeting of the Illuminati. And none of the services he had provided to Bergesrode had been enough to prevent the man's fall from office. Yet here he was, now the subordinate, uncomplaining of his demotion, dedicated only to his cause. And he was ready to break even the sacred rules of his church, to insist that Wéry was the one to defend the city. Why?
Because of the seed of hate in his heart. Because he knew it in Wéry, too.
Wéry felt very tired.
He should call Uhnen in, harangue him, turn him around. Perhaps he could even appoint the gaunt old aristocrat as his second-in-command. The defence was weak enough already. A struggle at the top would shake the men badly. But . . .
But he could not see himself succeeding. He could not imagine that anything he said would persuade that arrogant old noble. Not now. All he would achieve would be to put the plotters on their guard.
The man had just lost his son. And that must count for nothing. It would only make him the more unpredictable.
The safe thing to do – the only thing to do – was to strike first. What mattered was that Uhnen's subordinates should still take orders afterwards. So the blow should not be struck in front of them. Once it was done . . .
Bergesrode was waiting for him.
'Your cathedral troops,' Wéry said. 'Are they loyal?'
'Yes.'
'Could you arrange an arrest?'
Again Bergesrode looked at his thumbs.
'If I must,' he said.
'When he returns from the French lines. He will come to the Saxon gate. Do not wait until he has rejoined his troops inside the city. Take him to . . .' He hesitated.
It would be a risk to hold Uhnen in the citadel. Some of the garrison might be sympathizers.
'Is the cathedral secure?'
'It could be made so – if necessary.'
'To the cathedral, then. And see that you hold him there.'
To fight them you must be like them, he thought, as he watched Bergesrode's retreating back. The Prince had said it, and denied it. Then he had gone on to arrest and imprison his political opponents one after another.
And he, too, had denied it. And now he, too, was striking out like a tyrant: striking at an innocent man before he could become guilty.
'Commander!' called a voice from the door.
'Wait,' he said.
He put his hands over his face.
He had become the very thing that he most hated.